


You Can't Always Get What You Want

by lawless



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: Breathplay, D/s, M/M, Rough Sex, Saiyuki Kink Meme, Smut, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-09
Updated: 2011-09-09
Packaged: 2017-10-23 14:30:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/251354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lawless/pseuds/lawless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometime, you just might find you get what you need.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	You Can't Always Get What You Want

**Author's Note:**

> Written (at the time, anonymously) for saiyukianonkink on LJ. The prompt was: _Rough sex. Hazel finally gets quality time with Sanzo, but it ends up being more than the bishop bargained for. Sanzo tops, of course. Sex is completely consensual._
> 
> WARNINGS: Rough sex, D/s, spanking, breathplay.
> 
> Thanks to Kirathaune for looking this over to make sure I didn't get Hazel and his dialogue horribly wrong. Any remaining mistakes are mine.

As Sanzo brushes the hair out of his face, it sinks in that one of the downsides of leaving the group behind is that Hakkai’s not around to trim his bangs. It’s not a big deal, just another minor irritant in a long line of them. It’s not as though being unable to shoot straight because he can’t see properly endangers him; no one here is out to get him. Not in that sense, at least.

He’s aware that Bishop Hazel Grouse does indeed want to get to him – wants him badly, if his ridiculous come-ons are to be believed. Sanzo doesn’t know how his tormenter squares his attempts to charm Sanzo into his bed with his religious views. The sect Hazel belongs to considers sex between men a sin worse than adultery. Sanzo and Buddhism may have their differences, but at least Buddhism doesn’t outright condemn the same thing. But Hazel’s sense of morality, so black-and-white when it comes to youkai-human relations, is much more flexible when it comes to the pleasures of the flesh. Especially when his own flesh is involved.

Sanzo drums his fingers impatiently on the arm of the chair he’s sitting in when Hazel knocks at the door, then yells at him to come in. He’s tired and would much rather tell the man to fuck off and go away, but Hazel would probably take the first as encouragement and ignore the second, and Sanzo doesn’t believe in wasting any more breath on idiots than he has to.

Hazel pulls the door open, nearly slamming it against the wall, and says, “Good evenin’ to ya, kind sir! May I come in?”

“You’re in already,” Sanzo grumbles. “Shut the door and say what you have to, or leave.”

“Thank ya.” Hazel looks at the bedcovers, which are folded back, ready for Sanzo to get into bed, and the absence of his sutra and robe, and says, “I’m sorry, did I interrupt ya? It looks like yer gettin’ ready for some shut-eye.”

Sanzo grunts and doesn’t tell him that what he’d really like is some shut-ear.

“Share a friendly tipple, neighbor? We can swap childhood stories about our masters. You must have plenty.” He removes a flask from his pocket as he says this.

Sanzo doesn’t want to talk about Koumyou to this fool. Koumyou may not be around anymore, but Sanzo’s memories of Koumyou belong to him alone. He isn’t about to whore them out to entertain some whippersnapper of a bishop …

Shit. Hazel’s strange Western slang is rubbing off on him. No doubt Hazel wants to rub off on him, too. The man acts like a cat in heat, brushing up against Sanzo and letting him know, coyly but in no uncertain terms, what he wants.

Something breaks within him, and Sanzo can’t stand the thought of another night of putting up with Hazel’s flirtations while he tries to ignore them. If he plays his cards right, maybe he can con Hazel into thinking he’s getting what he wants while also teaching him that Sanzo is not someone to fuck around with.

Holding back the urge to vomit into the nearest trash can, Sanzo slouches in his chair, lets his legs fall open, and tries to catch Hazel’s eye. But Hazel is too busy pouring a generous serving of booze into two glasses he’s retrieved from the top of the minibar to notice.

Their fingers brush when Hazel hands Sanzo his drink. The contact makes Sanzo shiver, and he curses himself for being so fucking susceptible. He doesn’t feel anything toward Hazel other than annoyance.

Sanzo steels himself and clamps his hand around Hazel’s wrist, dragging Hazel toward him before Hazel can walk away. Hazel’s fancy cufflinks dig into his hand.

Hazel looks at him, startled, mouth forming an ‘o’. Shock gives way to boldness, and he lunges, tilting his head to make it easier for them to kiss. But instead of the frontal attack Sanzo expects, his lips are gentle, merely brushing against Sanzo’s, before he pulls back.

Stomach clenching, Sanzo leans forward and crushes their lips together. He snorts quietly when Hazel is only too happy to let Sanzo slip his tongue into his mouth. Sanzo closes his eyes and tries to forget everything other than his need to teach Hazel a lesson while his body responds to Hazel’s hot mouth and wet tongue.

Hazel scoots forward until he’s straddling Sanzo, sharp knees squeezing bony hips. They rub against each other, and Hazel starts to moan. Sanzo could surrender himself completely if he could forget who he’s doing this with. But since the point of this is to debase Hazel, it’s difficult to forget that he’s part of the equation.

“Yer so quiet, a feller might think yer not enjoyin’ yerself, Mister Sanzo.” Hazel brushes his fingertips against the bulge that suggests that Sanzo is enjoying himself on some level.

Fuck this, Sanzo decides. He isn’t supposed to be the one hemmed in, and Hazel’s not supposed to be in charge. Sanzo hoists the man straddling his lap in his arms and stands up. His muscles strain and scream at him; Hazel’s not as lightweight as he looks. But Sanzo manages to carry and dump him on the bed anyway.

“Why, Mister Sanzo, I didn’t know yeh cared so much,” Hazel says, batting his eyelashes. Damn him.

“Don’t play around with me,” Sanzo warns, ruthlessly beginning to strip off Hazel’s clothes. He fumbles when he encounters the buttons on Hazel’s dove gray waistcoat. Hazel, whose fingers are clearly far more accustomed to fastening and unfastening such fancy clothes than Sanzo’s are, takes over halfway through.

Sanzo is about to drop the waistcoat on the floor when a pouting Hazel says, “I’d appreciate the courtesy of your treating my clothing as kindly as I would.” Sanzo grumbles, but drapes the vest over the back of a chair. He looks at the rest of Hazel’s fussy attire – neat white button-down shirt fastened with those damn cufflinks and a thin black tie -- and scowls, deciding to work on removing Hazel’s trousers and leave the rest to Hazel. As for Hazel, first he removes his tie. Then he carefully undoes each and every button on his shirt in a way that seems meant to be deliberately provocative.

Eventually, Hazel is left wearing nothing but his briefs. While his muscles aren’t as well-developed as Sanzo’s (or, a traitorous voice tells him, those of anyone else in his group), he’s in better shape than Sanzo expected. He’d be almost attractive if his personality weren’t so exasperating.

Hazel goes to remove Sanzo’s black shirt, but Sanzo slaps his hand away and does the honors himself before flinging it to the floor. There’s no point in prolonging the pretend seduction. Hazel should realize by now that he’s getting what he wants, though possibly not the way he’d imagined; Sanzo’s not going to give him the ecstatic communion of two conjoined souls he’s probably hoping for.

While he doesn’t intend to be brutal, Sanzo doesn’t want to make this pleasant, either. Instead of making do with Hazel’s hair pomade or something similar, Sanzo is counting on the use of a generous amount of spit. With any luck, this primitive method of preparation will keep Hazel on edge, but enough at ease that he won’t protest.

“Open your mouth,” Sanzo tells him. Hazel does what he’s told, and Sanzo pushes his fingers into Hazel’s open mouth. “Get ‘em as wet as you can because that’s all the help you’re getting. If you don’t like it, the door’s over there.” The shiver that runs down Hazel’s spine, the goosebumps on his back and his strained breaths tell Sanzo that Hazel knows where this is heading and wants it however he can get it.

“Lick ‘em,” Sanzo orders, and Hazel does, lingering on each finger and fluttering his eyelashes as he looks up. He lifts his hips up helpfully so Sanzo can pull his briefs off. “Turn over,” Sanzo tells him, and he kneels on the bed with his ass in the air.

Sanzo circles Hazel’s furled opening with a spit-slicked finger. He’s grateful not to have to look Hazel in the eye when he slides the finger in. In return, Hazel groans as he clenches around the invading digit and rocks on hands and knees as he pushes back.

Sanzo pushes in further. He wants it to be possible to get inside Hazel without injuring him or inflicting so much pain that Hazel will want to stop.

Hazel whimpers when Sanzo withdraws his finger, then groans when two fingers replace the first one. Hazel proceeds to fuck himself against Sanzo’s hand.

After awhile, Sanzo decides that two fingers are enough. He doesn’t bother to do more than unzip, then walks around so his cock is right in front of Hazel’s face and tells him, “Slick this up with spit, too, unless you want it to hurt.” Hazel looks up at him for a moment before opening his mouth and trailing saliva all over Sanzo’s cock. Sanzo has to jerk Hazel’s head back when he starts trying to blow him; that’s not the point, and Sanzo doesn’t want to prolong this. He’s not even sure he’d be capable of fucking Hazel if Hazel blew him to completion anyway.

Once he judges that he’s wet enough, Sanzo moves back to the other end of the bed before sinking his cock into Hazel’s ass. As expected, given the amount of preparation, it’s tight and unyielding. He inches forward, running his hand down Hazel’s sides and whispering to him to relax. He can be as rough as he wants once he’s buried to the hilt.

It takes a minute or so before Hazel’s muscles loosen enough to let Sanzo push his way in. Hazel hisses and Sanzo tenses; the pressure surrounding him now is almost enough to bring him off. He centers himself by breathing deeply a couple of times, and the pressure eases.

It’s time now. He shoves Hazel’s legs out as far as he can so he can wedge himself between them, then pulls Hazel back by hair his while he smacks Hazel’s ass with his other hand so hard that it stings. Hazel yelps and arches his back.

Sanzo lets go of Hazel’s hair so he can grip Hazel’s hip, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He continues to whack Hazel with his other hand until it hurts too much to continue, then gazes appreciatively at the livid marks he’s left behind. He clutches Hazel’s hips; now that he’s using Hazel for support, he can plunge into him as hard as he wants to.

Hazel whimpers throughout but doesn’t make a single protest. Sanzo can hear his skin slapping against Hazel’s, feel the friction of flesh moving across flesh, pubic hair tickling his balls. And it’s as beautiful and arousing as it is dirty and nasty.

The tension in Hazel’s body transmits itself to Sanzo, who he feels his balls tighten. But his point hasn’t been adequately conveyed yet, so he stops moving and reaches around to wrap a hand around the base of Hazel’s up-to-now neglected cock to keep him from coming.

Hazel groans with frustration; Sanzo pants and quivers with the effort of holding back. He lets go of Hazel’s hips and slams his hand against Hazel’s upturned ass. Now both cheeks are reddened from the blows. Hazel wiggles and moans “fuck” under his breath.

Something of Sanzo’s control loosens, and he leans close to Hazel’s ear and growls, “You’d better do what I tell you if you want to come.”

Hazel turns his head to look at Sanzo, eyes glazed. “What do you want from me?”

“Beg. Tell me you don’t deserve this.” And Hazel does. He begs very prettily. “Ah, Mister Sanzo, sir, yer doin’ me a right favor, doing this for me.” Sanzo rewards him by thrusting into him hard, nearly knocking him into the headboard. “I don’t deserve yer attention.” _Got that right._ Sanzo tweaks a nipple, and Hazel sobs. He yanks at Hazel’s hair, and Hazels keens. He rakes his fingernails down Hazel’s back, and Hazel yowls.

Sanzo would like to teach him more of a lesson, would like to break Hazel apart and leave him strewn in pieces, but he’s starting to run out of patience. So he presses down on Hazel’s windpipe just enough to knock the breath out of him momentarily and bites down on the junction between neck and shoulder. Hazel cries out and comes, collapsing on the bed thereafter. Sanzo hopes he’s lying smack in the middle of the wet spot he’s left behind.

Sanzo pulls out and jerks off, semen spurting in a graceful arc and landing between Hazel’s shoulders. Hazel sighs, apparently content. Heaven knows, maybe he thinks this all is a sign of possession and not contempt. For his part, Sanzo is wrung out and happy to have this over with.

After a few minutes, Hazel pushes himself off the bed. Turning to Sanzo, he says, “I’m a mite sticky. Join me in the bath?” Sanzo doesn’t know whether to be annoyed or amused that even after being debauched, fucked over, and used, Hazel is still looking at him like a puppy would at a particularly appetizing bone.

“We’re not sharing a bath, and I don’t cuddle afterward. Get me a washcloth and call for a clean bedspread, then get the fuck out of my room.”

“Yessir,” Hazel says, a flicker of hurt and fear in his eyes. He brings Sanzo a damp washcloth from the bathroom. When he’s finished with it, Sanzo hands it back to Hazel, who uses it before hastily putting on his discarded clothing. He calls housekeeping to request another bedspread just before he slips out the door. As he does, he gives a crisp salute and Sanzo cringes, wondering if anything can pierce Hazel’s upbeat exterior.

Sanzo tucks himself back into his jeans, waiting for the maid to arrive. Once he’s exchanged the dirty bedspread for a clean one, he crawls into bed and collapses, exhausted from the night’s work.

***

The next morning, the good bishop winces and curses freely whenever he tries to move. He has his meals delivered, sending word to the town leaders that he’s indisposed and won’t be able to meet with them that day. There’s a bruise on his throat.

Gat stands guard outside Hazel’s door. The first time Sanzo sees him that day, the corners of his mouth briefly twitch upward in a hastily-suppressed grin before his normally deadpan expression returns. “The bishop will see no one today,” he rumbles apologetically.

“I wasn’t looking for him,” Sanzo replies. None of them say another word about what happened the night before. Sanzo finds the silence refreshing.


End file.
